


Tierce picarde

by primeideal



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Based on discarded notes, Character Death Fix, Gen, Redemption, Song Lyrics, Yuletide 2015, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steps towards resolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tierce picarde

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladypoetess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypoetess/gifts).



> Thanks to sixth_light for looking this over!

Asmodean walked through the halls of the royal palace of Andor, and knew it had been restored from balefire. Memory was inadequate. He had come, reluctantly taking his place in battle with al'Thor; then, he was alive and well, in one piece, but in between...?

Rahvin had destroyed him. Him and so many others. Immortality was a gift the Great Lord of the Dark could bestow to his most talented, most faithful, but he had not shown any such grace to Asmodean. Rather, he could ascribe his sustained life to _al'Thor_.

And he was not sure whether it would have been worth it for his own sake. Oh, the Dragon Reborn was hardly going to act like a bit of balefire was beneath him--but his cries of relief after the battle had been for the Aiel Maiden and perhaps for his childhood friend, Matrim Cauthon. Asmodean's life was a nice bonus. Perhaps nothing more.

But saving his life did not mean Rand al'Thor commanded his loyalty _either_ , Asmodean decided. He was just a child, ignorant enough to learn from a weakened, newly-freed Chosen. He could not offer the rewards the Great Lord had promised. There was no need...

"Stop that!"

Asmodean froze, fingers hovering at unnatural angles on the strings of his harp. Without meaning to, he had slipped into a wartime ballad, a song for those who stood deep in ancient ashes. al'Thor, however, seemed displeased. "As you command."

"No music. I cannot bear it." al'Thor gave him a stern, almost accusatory, glance. "Have you no shame? A woman is dead on my account today."

"I really have fallen behind the times. Rahvin kept many secrets."

"Moiraine Damodred," said the Dragon, and he regarded the wall as if he were to char it again. "A name worthy of a legend, that."

The Aes Sedai. And this was the champion of the light, who wanted to take credit for her death? "How much do you remember, Lews Therin?"

al'Thor rounded on him. "What did you call me?"

"Lews Therin Kinslayer, Lord of the Morning, what do you remember of Lanfear?"

"She is dead, dead too many times over, and at too high a price. Memories are worth less than the gaps between your strings."

"So you know of her strength with the power? Know how few refused her dealings?"

"Burn me for a fool, I know!"

"Then know that anyone who underestimates her does so at their own peril. She killed that Aes Sedai teacher of yours, and though she may be dead, I won't let you forget it."

al'Thor scowled. "What does it matter?"

"How will you defeat Graendal? Semirhage? Mesaana? Any of them would have your head for dessert, and stories travel."

"So you want me to triumph, then?"

"I want to survive. Whatever it takes."

"Death might be a relief, compared to what I must do. What is coming to the world."

How was that ever supposed to work? No, one kept clinging to life, in whatever way one could manage. That was the only bargain worth making. "I know little of you Third Age men. Perhaps you are soft, grown distant from the allies you once tried to do battle alongside."

"I will be hard!" said al'Thor. "As hard as I must!"

"If you cannot give Moiraine Damodred her due, cannot honor her as a woman sworn to make her own choices, then give Lanfear _hers_. Do not shoulder burdens that are not yours to carry."

"Lanfear is dead. There's nothing left for her to carry, either."

"The Lord of the Grave rewards his devoted."

"You still believe that?"

Asmodean felt his fingers tighten around the muted harpstrings. It was not his to choose another path, he told himself. How could he choose another way? Faith that came from a free choice was no faith at all; it came from something deeper, something bound tight within his soul.

They walked on, until long after they had parted, the corridor was empty.

* * *

"Natael! A moment."

al'Thor looked, if not satisfied, somewhat more relaxed than usual. He had been about some business on a farm in Caemlyn. He'd grown up on a farm, Asmodean had recalled. Was that some paltry attempt to regain his childhood?

"Sir," he nodded.

"Play something light. One of your own--" He gave a twitch. "--compositions, if you must."

This was a rare opportunity, one to be savored. Of course, he did not have access to all the ensembles of the past; he'd need to choose something rich, but that could be simplified to the point where he could play it as a solo without it losing all its texture. Asmodean launched into quick arpeggios before settling into the rhythms of _The Waters of Shorelle_. He had been proud of that one, a simple motif recurring with many subtle variations.

"Lovely." al'Thor shook his head. "More of these love songs. Burn me, sometimes I think I need more airs to play on the flute than bloody dragons on my arms."

"Love songs?" Asmodean broke off.

"Is that not a love song?"

"I don't know what your Third Age prattle is, what do you mean by that?"

"A song you'd sing to--for--about--someone you love."

"Love _how_?"

"Like you loved..." al'Thor broke off, regarding him, then gave a confused laugh. "Isendre."

The Darkfriend from the caravans, who'd crossed the Waste with him? "And how do you think I love her?"

He rolled his eyes. "As one who shared a bed."

"Beds are few in the Aiel Waste."

"Natael..."

"She was a reliable ally. Out for herself, of course, but admirably so. I regretted her death."

"Are you saying you were only friends?"

"'Only' is a slight. We were friends, and glad of it. It was a pleasure to me, one of few, to have someone to sing with. And for the both of us, it was a welcome change of pace to have someone else to plot alongside."

"News to me."

"Everyone needs some dream, some hope to keep reaching for. Sometimes it dries up as fast as water in the wilderness, but I needed to give her something. Stay undercover, I told her--don't make a commotion, don't interfere with whatever Lanfear's planning--and I'd reward her with whatever pleasures she'd like."

al'Thor gave a nod. "And you had no intention of following through?"

"You're surprised by _dishonesty_ in my trade? And hers?"

"I need you to teach me."

"I signed on to teach you the One Power, not the social habits of Friends of the Dark."

al'Thor began pacing the room. "So you've never known love?"

Asmodean set the harp down--he did not want to lash out at it. Oh, it could be repaired, but like as not the Dragon would demand he show him how to rethread the strings, and he was not in the mood. "I wager I've known far more sorts of love than you have in your short life."

"And no lovers?"

"The love of a mother--briefly--a teacher--on occasion--the thrill of friends and rivals pushing me forward? Awe for my vanished city, for the Da'shain Aiel who were foolish enough to serve me, even the Creator whom _we_ were once foolish enough to serve."

"And you loved the Dark One, in your way?"

"Call it that if you must."

"Because you don't any longer?"

"Because you have no ear for subtlety, and I grow tired of this."

"Hold," said al'Thor, and if it was clear that Asmodean was in no position to be giving orders, he seemed at least more curious than some superiors. "Were you lonely? Did that drive you to--"

"To become this? Perhaps it escaped you that my pledge was for immortality, and had I grown weary of life on my own after several decades, that millennia might be unexciting? Are you really so unimaginative that you cannot contemplate all the other dreams a man might fathom, had he but life enough?"

"Never mind _saidin_ , I may need to die before I can dream again. The prophecies..."

al'Thor trailed off, and Asmodean did not meet his eyes. Others of the Forsaken had been listed among the dark prophecies he knew, though he could find no mention of himself. Was he too unimportant? He did not mind having his future undetermined, on balance--he could make his own--but sometimes it made him wonder.

"There are many of us, is all I mean, all with their own lives--and loves--before serving the Great Lord. Lanfear, well, she and...never mind her, Graendal and Rahvin took lovers in their fashion. Mesaana in hers, as was common in that age. Semirhage and I could pass an afternoon reading together and need nothing more fulfilling in a day."

al'Thor squinted. "I am preparing to give my life to defeat the Dark One, and you're concerned about Mesaana's pillow-friends?"

"I don't know why you called for me. But if you'd like to hear another trite tribute to romance, then yes, I have composed a few. On commission," he sighed.

"So you've got a history of cutting deals."

"What?"

"Never mind. Play the--jig, from a few mornings ago."

 _Jest of Youth_ \--repetitive, but beguiling. He complied.

"As you know, I am inviting those men who pledge to me to serve as they're fit."

"Men?" Asmodean echoed.

al'Thor ignored him. "This includes any man who can sense _saidin_. Taint or no taint, _Tarmon Gai'don_ is coming. I won't turn away any weapon that would fight alongside me. We need all the power we can muster."

"'We'?"

"This farm of mine, out beyond the city. I intend to make it a school for men to learn to channel."

Asmodean rolled his eyes. "And just how many zealots do you intend for me to teach now, weak as I am?"

"None."

"I see the recruiting efforts have progressed well."

"Have my _bannerman_ suddenly show up channeling _saidin_? I don't think you want to teach them any more than I want to answer those questions."

"And do you have enough time for them, amid your tending to prophecy and--private life?"

"No. That will be the province of Mazrim Taim."

 _Hama thamel, shama amela_ \--he broke off the jig. Mazrim Taim sounded like a name he should know, but over countless years and aliases, he could not place it. "Who?"

"A false Dragon. But a channeler, and a strong one. He's submitted to me."

"I could--" Could what? He did not know this Taim, did not want to usurp him or talk al'Thor out of whatever cushy but inutile position was planned for him next. He did not fancy himself a teacher of a bunch of Third Age no-hopes, all cursed with the taint and convinced they ought to fight the last battle.

Only...perhaps it was simple jealousy. Yes, that was it. Gather together enough men who could channel, and perhaps one or two would give him a complex. This Taim had fooled some women long enough to keep himself on the run for a while.

Was it just their power he resented? He glanced up at al'Thor and decided that that could not be right; spending time in the company of the Dragon Reborn was not particularly belittling. Oh, the boy could be oblivious, but not patronizing. But if these channelers' power was not worth jealousy, all that defined them was their loyalty.

"Could what?" said al'Thor.

"Nothing. Never mind. Only--what sort of a man is Taim? Is he ready for the task?"

The hesitation before al'Thor answered spoke enough. "He's the best I have."

"Then be watchful. And let me help you, as I can."

"Help me? Well, we can practice the weaves of Illusion once more. And then--let us speak, of what you remember of Lews Therin Telamon."

* * *

The better part of a year had come and gone, and new wonders were being discovered every day. Matrim Cauthon had the Dark One's own luck, they said--and apparently, he had the Dark One's own knack for restoring long-lost channelers from _Sindhol_ . Asmodean was confident that the woman who had sparred with them on the day al'Thor had cleansed _saidin_ \--healed the taint of three thousand years!--had been Lanfear wearing another disguise. Though their armies had not seen her since, with the confrontation at Merrilor drawing near, Rand seemed able to put it aside and focus on the ally who had returned in the flesh. Moiraine Damodred was alive, drawn into another spiral of plots.

That night, however, she seemed content to pace between tents. There were more than enough soldiers to take Asmodean off gleeman's duty, their rousing battle cries muffled as if to hide themselves from the encompassing darkness. So he found himself approaching her. "You should sleep."

"So should..." she began automatically, then did a double-take. "You?"

"I'm not immune from needing sleep, on the whole. But yes."

"I..." Moiraine trailed off, nonplussed but then irritated at being lost for words on such a momentous night. "What do we call you, these days?"

"Most people have met me as Jasin Natael. I suppose that will have to do, if only a little longer."

"Easy enough to remember. And what do you call yourself? Forsaken, or Chosen?"

There it was, some sort of dichotomy, and he glanced around the campgrounds as if they would offer any better answer. Towards the waiting stars, he put off speech, and when he could halt no longer, said "Neither."

" _Neither_?"

"Forsaken or Chosen by who? There is no one. I was not abandoned by the Dark One--it was Rand al'Thor himself who cut away the bonds sustaining me. His decision, to set me free. And as little as I enjoy the company of some of these do-gooders, they have not forsaken me either--we support each other, in our fashion." At her questioning glance, he went on. "But I can hardly say I was chosen; the Dark One did not need to recruit me, and does not seem to have missed me since my...absence. The prophecies ignore me, and my onetime friends would be happy to see me dead. No, I was not chosen by them for any great purpose."

"Then when did...all this happen?"

"As well ask when my shield dissipated. It was not the work of an instant, not a conscious choice--I do not think it was last time, either. But day by day, I found myself more content teaching al'Thor, working alongside him, and saw no need to seek out Darkfriends. I should hardly think tomorrow will be any different."

"If you step out of line tomorrow you'll be burnt out of the pattern faster than you can play that harp of yours."

"Because there aren't enough people trying to kill me already?"

"You are nothing if not an intelligent man. You shouldn't need a second warning."

"Rand likes to quote someone to me--that no soul can walk in the shadow for so long, that they cannot turn again to the light."

"Man or woman?"

"Either, he agrees! I suppose the constant threat of Graendal or Demandred showing up to burn us all away will help, but I've been doing my best to instill fair-minded paranoia in him."

"It seems to have succeeded. Congratulations."

Asmodean gave a small shrug. "He quotes a lot of things."

"Am I on the list?"

"'To live, you must die.' I assume you didn't tell him that?"

"I had my own--departure to see to."

Burn Rhuidean, it and its foretellings. "I don't put much stock in that. Maybe it's lost a bit in translation, but it seems a tad inconsistent."

"I thought you appreciated more subtleties."

"What I appreciate is the--fervor--of so many of your allies. Even those who think their death is near are willing to fight, and before that, to _create_ something that might outlast them. Have you seen Rand's schools?"

"No, I've been a bit occupied."

"You must--er, that is--I do wish you every opportunity to visit. They are marvelous academies, for their age."

"I'd like the chance, too."

When had he learned to reckon like anyone else? To savor the value of chances, and have nothing but scorn for the empty promises of the Dark One? It was easier to point to a day when oaths were sworn and bonds forged; part of him did not want to be ordinary, even though he knew everyone should cling to indecisions like he did. Perhaps if only he knew their true worth. "Then I wish you good fortune tomorrow."

"I've had more fortune in this life than seems my lot."

He glanced around, as if to make sure no one else was listening. "If appearances are to tell all, then perhaps so have I. But the world has not."

"And it's for them that we fight?"

"'We'?" he echoed. But this time when he glanced around, he beheld the tents in all their colors, muted in the darkness. Every nation on the continent was represented: Aiel by the clans, Seanchan and all their creatures, Children of the Light, a few partisans below forgotten banners. And somewhere in the back of Rand's mind, the voice of the man who'd been Lews Therin Telamon thousands of years ago. Surely Moiraine could not believe there was anything unifying the armies other than a common cause, never mind whether he counted himself among them or not.

"You think you're above the fray?" Her laughter was nearly pleasant. "You're as bad as my husband sometimes."

"You're _married_?"

"Everyone's surprised."

At least someone was seeing to new beginnings. "That is, congratulations."

"Never mind that." Moiraine hesitated. "Have you seen the seals?"

"No." Asmodean shivered. "And I don't need to. The inside was enough."

He'd had an easier time than many. When he and Lanfear had compared notes, there had been no memories, no nightmares. That was more than some could claim, and in retrospect, far more than he deserved.

But he dreaded rests of any length, and that silence felt unimaginable.

* * *

The armies of the light lay in chaos. The Great Captains had been corrupted, their minds unseen traitors to a subtler taint than they could fear. Matrim Cauthon was in command, directing countless armies like a linked channeler might split flows. Rand had disappeared to somewhere beyond knowing, as yet beyond song or story, and Asmodean knew he had not yet earned the right to watch. Aes Sedai, still bound by their oaths, sent founts of power at Shadowspawn. But they could not stand alone.

"Where are the Asha'man?" Asmodean asked. "Where are the guardians, now the time has come to make a stand?"

"Androl is establishing gateways," said a Seanchan woman--Shipless, was that her title?--"Logain is with a group of civilians."

"And Taim? Where is the M'Hael?"

It had been a rhetorical question. He did not expect a true answer, but all of a sudden, he saw the distant figure of Mazrim Taim emerge from the fields of battle. The false dragon who'd left the Black Tower for weeks on end, on quests of his own, had returned at the last. But at what cost? "M'Hael. Leader, you call me, and that is well," he thundered, his voice amplified on waves of power. "This age has not truly seen me as a general, a leader of men. Only a setter of busywork, making tasks for boys and weaving illusions of peace. But let us put these illusions to rest."

Power rolled off him in waves, and as he did, the longstanding weave burst into nothingness. In the place of the false dragon stood Demandred.

"Face me, Lews Therin!" he roared. "And let us see what has become of all your swordplay."

If the Black Tower had been led by a Forsaken...But he was only a distraction, he could be nothing more. Of course all the most skillful Darkfriends would be among the enemy, they had expected no less. "Ignore him," Asmodean hissed to anyone in earshot. "Barid Bel Medar is an annoyance." He wanted to add something like "he will be dealt with," but there was no need to rest on overblind trust.

So the battle continued. He sent bursts of Air at Shadowspawn, suffocating Trollocs as they marched and leading Myrddraal into the paths of opposing armies. Demandred howled his rage to the skies, reciting a litany of a dozen injustices attributed to Lews Therin, but no one moved to duel him.

He could not match Demandred with a sword, Asmodean remembered, nor were they equals in the power. It would be a waste, a spectacle for no purpose.

"Will Lews Therin not appear?" he challenged again. "Does he fear me too much? Does he know I am too skillful an adversary?"

"Tell Barid Bel that Rand al'Thor goes to do greater work than he can imagine," said Asmodean. If Demandred would be petty and omit the honorific third name, so could he.

Word must have spread, because Demandred _did_ retreat, closing ranks behind rings of other channelers. Dreadlords--some rogue Asha'man, who he could all too easily have recruited during the rift in the Black Tower. Others were Aiel men, forcibly turned to the Dark One's ranks. "If Lews Therin does not have time for me," Demandred raged, "I will _make_ time."

Balefire exploded in every direction, unweaving the work of the pattern. Aes Sedai and Asha'man alike, to say nothing of the warriors who fought with nothing but spear and sword, blinked out of existence, while the Shadowspawn and Darkfriends they had already destroyed emerged from the void. This must have been how he had returned to Caemlyn, Asmodean knew, without memory or gratitude.

"These are no true Aiel. They have forgotten honor."

"We must return balefire!" someone else suggested. "It's the only way."

"No!" protested another voice, young but firm. The girl Amyrlin, Egwene al'Vere. "We will not destroy the pattern to save it. There _must_ be another weave."

"You can't be sure."

"Just as men and women are opposites, balefire must have its counterpart. Something that creates, rather than destroys."

The situation certainly was bleak, but the Amyrlin could not waste her time looking for impossible weaves. "Ah--Mother," Asmodean interrupted, "I beg your pardon, but please--trust that my experience with the One Power is...extremely extensive. I know of no weave that can counteract balefire, and I do not expect there to be one undiscovered. The relationships among the weaves are much more subtle than opposites. They can be related, derivative, opposing, complementary--as diverse and full of potential as, well, men and women themselves. Not that _they're_ opposites either."

al'Vere sighed. "Believe what you will; I must find some weave that can defeat this."

"I would suggest a flow of water, then."

"Perhaps..." She weaved at the ground beneath the Eye Blinders, changing patches of dirt to _cuendillar_. But they did not hesitate, continuing to balefire anything sent in their direction. It was all Asmodean could do to set up meager defenses around those gathered near the Amyrlin.

Suddenly, she took aim at an opposing channeler, and his weave failed. "That's it. Not opposites, after all. Opposing fire with-- _flame_."

The Amyrlin drew on the power in a surge, and suddenly, the Dreadlord was trapped within a column of crystal. Asmodean could only hope his death had been quick--otherwise, imprisonment in the shard felt too agonizing to dream of.

"So," she gave a thin smile, "there _is_ a counterweave."

"By the Light! You've been at war all day, and you drew on that?"

"This may be the time for more--desperate measures." She produced a fluted wand; an immense _sa'angreal_ , radiating with light.

Asmodean's gaze widened. "Show me the weave again."

This time, it was a rogue Asha'man she targeted, transfixing him in another translucent column. It was not the suffering Darkfriend that Asmodean watched, but rather, the _sa'angreal_ itself. "Is that buffered?"

"What?"

"Can you overdraw _saidar_?"

"I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. This threat must be defeated, and this is the only _sa'angreal_ we have. If this is where I am meant to serve, I will pay any price to gain victory here."

"I believe you. But there may be another way. Link with me, and the flow of _saidin_ will naturally temper the torrents of _saidar_."

"Who are you?"

"Today I am Jasin Natael, bannerman of the Light, and I fight the same enemy you do. That is all you need to know."

She paused, no doubt at the mercy of a dozen silent deliberations--who or what was the Amyrlin, at such an hour?--but gave a cold nod. Moments later, he felt her power on the verge of melding with his own, and let her form the tight circle. Then she passed him control, and for the first time in ages, he felt wellsprings of _saidar_ rush to fill the gaps in familiar, scintillating _saidin_ , in thunderous harmony. Even Lanfear had not let him link with her, and surely she had never dreamed of possessing a _sa'angreal_ of such magnitude.

One by one, he guided al'Vere's flows into his own, and one by one, the Dreadlords were transformed. "It's because they're linked to the shadow, isn't it?" al'Vere asked. "That's why it affects them so strongly."

Since the cleansing of _saidin_ , the Asha'man needed no dark cords to bind them. But somehow, he knew she was right. "I believe you are onto something."

"I understand this weave, somehow. It creates endurance in the midst of destruction, a force that will withstand the years...the Flame of Tar Valon." And in the midst of battle, the Amyrlin smiled. "Don't you go trying to name it after wherever you come from, gleeman."

"Fine with me." Shorelle had been meant for water, not fire. It could have been anywhere, buried under countless years. Let the Amyrlin live through this and she could name the weave whatever she pleased, if she was that proud.

But with _saidin_ tempering her fount of _saidar_ , the Dreadlords fell back until Demandred stood alone. "So," he said. "Lews Therin sends a girl to face me?"

"Enough, Barid Bel," said Asmodean. "Joar Addam has come himself."

"You?" Demandred gaped. "No! I should have made an end of you when I first had the chance!"

"Mazrim Taim, the great M'Hael, reduced to picking off bards? How the mighty dream of falling."

"It was before that, actually, before I first borrowed the poor Taim's shape. I supposed I would set myself up as the Dragon's teacher. But never mind, plans do have a way of changing. This will be enough." He drew his sword. "Let us see if you have learned how to play with weapons in this age."

Nodding quietly, Asmodean drew on _saidin_. Like Rand had done countless times, he formed a temporary sword with the One Power, then stepped forward.

"So you cheat? Face me like a man--"

Asmodean struck. His blow came nowhere near Demandred, and he rolled to the side as Demandred advanced on him, sword at the ready. Picking himself up, he leaped and attacked again, once again not coming close to hitting and dodging a return blow.

"I had hoped for a serious opponent."

"I am deadly serious." Channeling Air, he bore himself up to strike above Demandred's head, pivoting and bouncing off a crystal column that held an encased _Samma N'Sei_. Then he was soaring between them, lurching out with his power-wrought weapon and thrusting it near Demandred, who began hovering out of reach.

"Release me, and let me direct you!" al'Vere called.

She thought he was too slow, too weak. She was right. He could not hope to defeat or outrun Demandred. But he was not aiming for _him_.

With a weave of Spirit, Asmodean illuminated the black cords that still bound Demandred to the Dark One. "Mother, can you see these? I know a weave that will sever them."

Though Demandred never smiled, he seemed ready to give an empty laugh. "You dare to presume I will betray my lord?"

" _Saidin_ is cleansed now. You do not need these--as I do not."

"And you think I will accept life beneath Lews Therin's thumb? Second-rate again? You are blind as well as deaf."

"Rand al'Thor is gone, who knows if he will live? You are the M'Hael, leader of the Black Tower. Forge it anew, into the sentinel he envisioned, and build something that will outlive both of us."

"You've forgotten what it would mean to live forever." Demandred spun his sword in his hands, and seconds later it blazed with the One Power. He plunged from a platform of air between the crystals, aiming to kill. Asmodean hurriedly tried to shield him, and they drifted back towards the ground.

Bearing himself up again, Demandred launched himself towards Egwene, who could not direct flows while she was still linked to Asmodean. Deflecting a blast of water between them, Asmodean shot upwards again, sparks flying whenever their power-made swords drew near each other.

With a weave Asmodean did not recognize, Demandred masked the cords once again, forcing Asmodean to try attacking him directly. He expertly parried away every stroke with the skill of a blademaster.

He could feel himself growing faint, while Demandred continued his assault. "Can we Travel elsewhere to expand the link?" asked the Amyrlin. "Let me guide the flows."

"I can't split off that flow, not and defend the both of us!"

Her stricken look was answer enough. Even with the _sa'angreal_ , they had channeled too much in defeating the Dreadlords to match Demandred's supply much longer.

"Very well, Mother. When I release you, Travel from here. It may be better to skim--he can prevent you from opening a gateway. Link with others if you must--preserve the weave. The _Flame_ , so help me, and keep your _sa'angreal_ safe."

"But--"

"I will see to Barid Bel. No...let us use our newer names, Demandred."

al'Vere gaped.

"Go!" He closed the link, and foreign, magnificent _saidar_ , fell away. al'Vere regarded him for a moment, then opened a gateway to skim into darkness.

"Demandred," Asmodean repeated. "Blade-twister. I never questioned Lanfear about how unique she claimed to be. Maybe I should have."

"She claimed to be unique?"

"Daughter of the night; she chose her own name, we were just given ours. Destroyer of hope, betrayer of hope. The slicer, the spider, the promise of pain. So many various ways to destroy. Yourself not least among them, of course."

"I am least among no one. And when I make an end of you, like I should have long ago--"

"And among all of these, one musician. Did you never wonder why I was named after what I created, instead?"

Demandred hesitated.

" _Al corenne mael_ ," he chanted in the Old Tongue-- _for the return of hope_ \--and drew deeper and deeper of the power, flinging himself at Demandred. He had imagined noise, but there was only silence amid the colors, countless flecks filling the space between darkness and light.

As _saidin_ filled him, his last thought was that death would spare him the indignity of hearing his legend sung by those who would not understand him, their own cheap rhythms and moralizing replacing the thread that had been his life.

* * *

He woke to exhaustion, and the knowledge that he had been Healed. He was lying in a tent, either muted against the battle beyond or--he dared to imagine--recovering in peace.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, and tested himself, pacing outside. There was an infantryman standing guard between several tents, aged but sturdy-looking. "Hello?" Asmodean called.

"Good evening," said the man. "Can you walk?"

"I think so. I..."

He nodded. "They said you shouldn't overexert yourself, but I reckon you'll know your limits. You're an Asha'man?"

"Not exactly. I--do you need me?"

"Yes," he said, with enough command in his voice he could have been the newest Great Captain for all Asmodean cared. There would be time enough for questions of name later. There would be time--he was alive. Mortal and human, but alive!

He nodded. "Lead the way."

But instead of walking deeper into the field of Merrilor, the infantryman led him back towards a tent.

"Er," Asmodean asked, "how fares the...battle?"

He let out a deep breath. "The battle is ended. We won, though none of it comes easy."

"Demandred?"

"De...oh. Dead. All the Forsaken were dealt with, in their fashion."

"And the Amyrlin?"

"Healing with her husband. He had some sort of run-in with an accursed weave, and it was only the strength of their bond that saved him. They'll both recover, but I don't know the first thing about Healing weaves. That's--why I need a channeler."

"I'm not a great Healer," Asmodean said. "But--I'll see what I can do."

"It's my son. Anything you can try..."

"Of course." Their work would never be done. Glory and blazes were all well and good, but then came the waves of busywork. al'Thor had had some sort of quote for that, too.

Asmodean reached for the True Source, and--nothing. He could not touch _saidin_ , could not channel his way out of bed.

"Are...are there any shields in this area?"

"Shields? I can probably round up a few, if that would help."

"Pardon. I mean, have others been able to channel? Aes Sedai, Asha'man?"

"Indeed. Nynaeve Sedai, Asha'man Flinn, they were here, trying what they could."

"I don't--I don't think I'll be able to succeed where they have failed."

"Try what you can," said the soldier, pushing aside another tent flap. "Please."

Rand al'Thor lay unconscious on a cot, herons and dragons still burnt into his skin. How long had it been since Asmodean had raised false dragons of his own, on the arms of Couladin in Rhuidean? He knelt down and took Rand's arms, searching in vain for any remnant of the True Source, but he could not reach it. "I can't channel anymore," he admitted, turning from Rand. "I'm sorry."

Apologies were not enough. Rand's father--Tam, he remembered--looked past grief, weighing the fates of lives lost and defended in his mind like so many soldiers had before him.

"Rand spoke of you," he said. "I tried to teach him how to focus--how to channel the One Power. He'd already learned how to concentrate, when he practiced archery, swordsmanship. You raised a great warrior."

"A great man," said Tam, with a hint of correction.

"If there's anything else I can do--please..."

"Send for Nynaeve Sedai. She may be able to heal your...condition."

Asmodean nodded, but waited. The Healer would have rounds to make and more critical cases to see to. He contented himself with building a cairn. Not for Rand, he could not bear to give up on Rand yet, nor for any of those who were known to have died in the battle. There would be time to honor them too. But for Mazrim Taim, the channeler who had believed himself the fulfiller of prophecy, only to be destroyed by Demandred's machinations. Even if none of them had known him, he had dreamed of greatness like so many, and died for his dreams. There were worse fates.

When Asmodean ultimately convened with Nynaeve, it was only to confirm what he'd feared. Deliberate severing could be overcome, another contribution he had to give credit to the Third Age for. Burning out could not.

As he learned how the rest of _Tarmon Gai'don_ had gone, he did feel a loss of purpose. There was no need for grandiose battle cries in the Old Tongue; Cauthon, apparently, had that niche secured. Nor were his services necessary to sound a horn and resurrect heroes of ancient times, another function he thought he could have performed more than adequately in the grand scheme of things.

Yet he did not sense the despair that befell so many people who lost their connection to the One Power. He _had_ another purpose--had always had one. He wanted to compose, to create something sublime and endless, even if he was not. Nothing could change that.

* * *

Joar Addam--the Fourth Age had no room for honorific names either--was hardly a proud Cairhienin. But there was no place that he could feel like he'd come _from_ , and one home was as good as any. If he could not Travel under his own power, at least he could keep up with his own network of correspondents. Every once in a while, Moiraine and her husband would consult him on some matter of lineation. Or an upstart Ogier would want to pick his brains. Usually Joar would set the price of historical reference at a stones game, just to have some reason to get out of the house without having to be consistently pleasant.

But when a knock sounded, he rose and paced to the door. He still had no weapon--sometimes he toyed with the idea of training with a spear as one might adopt a new hobby, to fill the void left by _saidin_ , but there had never been a need. He'd had enough to answer for, from so many allegiances, to not fear vengeance.

The face of the visitor, cloaked to the winds outside, gave Joar chills. He'd seen that man in too many skirmishes, accompanying Rand and stitch by stitch, learning he cared for the banner he raised. But he made no sign. "Moridin?"

"May I come in?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"There's always a choice," he said. Oh, it was still Moridin's voice, but infused with some other tone, that Joar could not quite place.

Could he run? No, a moment later the door had shut, faster than any wind could close it. Perhaps the back would offer some exit, if he could not fight. How could the Forsaken have survived?

Moridin came and seated himself across from Joar's stones board. A moment later, the dust had fallen from the board, and all the pieces were in their appropriate starting positions.

Joar laughed. "Now that's a weave for the lazy."

"It's not, actually. I can't sense the Source anymore."

"Is that so? Neither can I."

"I'd heard tell of what you accomplished at _Tarmon Gai'don_. I came here to thank you."

" _Thank_ me?"

"For your bravery, among other things."

"Denying oblivion even to you, so-called Death? Yes, I'm proud of that." Everyone deserved a chance to keep going--some out of their own will, some out of spite.

"To me?" Moridin glanced down at himself. "Oh! Asmodean, I'm not the man you take me for."

"With the amount of times the Dark One's had to paste you back into the pattern, I shouldn't be surprised."

Moridin closed his eyes and began to sing quietly. "Some love is like the ocean deep  
And boundless as the shore  
Some count themselves with such love blessed  
And say they'll love no more."

"You were paying attention?!" In all his time among the Forsaken, he had never thought Moridin, or his predecessor Ishamael for that matter, cared one whit about his music.

"Of course. I learned much from your teaching, but it's taken me a while to remember this last lesson."

"I taught you nothing."

"Jasin Natael, you taught me all I know of _saidin_."

Joar froze. "Rand? By the Light, it _is_ you!"

Moridin--Rand--broke into a smile. "It was the Forsaken they burned in my body. Myself, I had some things to do--I'd like to believe for the world's good. Let the nations come to peace, without my command enforcing it. And...there are some lovers I've been meaning to spend time with. Quite a few."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"I'm a young man, and there's a world to see, without the One Power or the weight of prophecy in my way. And there will be more to see--but I have something else to do first."

"A game of stones?"

"After that. There are others I love in my way, and I'm ready to return to them--tell them I'm alive, I'm ready to be everything I was. A son, a student, a friend. It was your song that reminded me."

"They sing the songs of Asmodean, the Forsaken?"

"The songs of Joar Addam, Aes Sedai of the Second Age. And the city he loved." Rand took his seat at the stones board. "These will not die."

_But Water cycles all around_  
_So deep within the well_  
_Is still another worthy love_  
_That springs from sweet Shorelle._

_My father's love is steady as_  
_The rain that feeds the earth_  
_And tests all living things to learn_  
_The measure of their worth._

_And droughts have come, and drownings wept_  
_When bitter waters fell._  
_The gentle are not always kind,_  
_Those storms of wild Shorelle._

_My teacher's love is searching_  
_Like the river to the sea_  
_It seeks out untold paths in us_  
_To build what we might be._

_Through rocks and rubble block the way_  
_Wisdom will surely tell_  
_The new course set in a new day_  
_Of streams beyond Shorelle._

_My friends' love is as constant as_  
_The steam that fills the air._  
_Through heat and chill, with chosen will_  
_They guide to heights more fair._

_When darkness haunts from every side_  
_Our spirits none can quell_  
_With allies strong and unafraid_  
_Good comrades of Shorelle._

_I sail from port, sheltered within_  
_The Creator's embrace;_  
_No man more loved could ever make_  
_Home in so grand a place._

_Till I return, again to drink_  
_Of all hope that could dwell_  
_Within this city of my heart,_  
_The waters of Shorelle._

**Author's Note:**

> "Taimandred" versus Asmodean draft notes came to light in November 2015: http://theoryland.com/vbulletin/showthread.php?t=8767


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